Wils Wildebrant
Flick of a Thumb Neither graces nor gifts were paid to his birth. No kiss 'pon his forehead, or the blessing of a priest. The child wailed and was held throughout the late night and early morn, due to the stubborn tenacity of this boorish newborn. His mother a tavern's wench and his father a man considered lucky, luck would have it such a limitless child braved his adolescence bare foot along the docks of Booty Bay. Out of trouble and between every corner, he learnt it from the best of every kind of bad man how to be dreadful. Wisdom was sought after vicious pirates, counsel taken from drunks of the pig-sty, manners copied by beasts in the tavern. He was subject to it all of his free will and endless free time. Twirl of a Coin He grew well this way, raised by every bilge rat with a story to wander through such a merry port. He sculpted for himself the brimming, capable body so many of the gargantuan monsters from 'round Azeroth, aided in the work he began to take, loading and unloading cargo until the sun set. From all the fun he could find listening to slurred tales off rotten breath, the most intriguing came from a golden pair of pauldrons. Strength that glittered like riches took a shine to his dark, young eyes, and every word they poured he drank to be hungry for more. Inspiration beyond a mighty form took root. Glory and gold, like these men bear, slaying hundreds upon thousands to return home and find glory within victory. Any man whose eyes had only been dazzled by the sun off the water would follow what he may to have such honor for himself. Life would never keep him in the Bay, he always knew. Life would draw him where he wanted, where he willed, as it always had. Gunpowder Smoke Best way to get out of Booty Bay was through the Bloodsail Buccaneers. Further and further they encroach, once again proving the cove was always going to be overthrown by something new. But it could be prolonged, if one is crafty enough to bring in a few heads for payment. By himself, the lad took to methods more guerilla, offing red-soaked pirates from the water, the brush outside the coast's clearing, or behind a blinding smoke. The bastard was not without his enemies and their repercussions, creating more of a personal enemy of the buccaneers. Out scott-free the would-be hero was not, caught and tortured one humid night, to leave his face marred, whether by scars and knives, or tattoos of jettisoned ink. Countless ways he was left punished, with just enough sour luck to leave him alive and deposited. It hadn't stopped him. His means to escape himself had become personal as well following the way they evened the score. His war went on, earning the buccaneers little more than a more gruesome way to die by his hands. But finally, after the lowly human's turmoil, he bought his way out and set sail north along the coast, until the boat would hit dock in a world far unlike his. Blessed Soil His first step onto the grand human civilization was his first prideful step of his life. Besides a path blocked with sweltering, sweating, turmoil of Stranglethorn, past his appearance gaudy and unrighteous, his calling was clear in his mind. Harness what charismatic power and knightly glory innate to he now knows to be a paladin, and use its great, bearing authority to grant him favor and gifts befit a princely newborn, relinquished of him since his own birth. Appearances Variable are the striking ways in which Wils is most commonly identified. In various states of dress he can be seen, one as frequently and infrequently as the other. A boy under the sun begot his shirt and shorts for the ocean any day there was no rain. Even in adulthood, any chance for a summery day, and Wils has his own clothing to sport, in the form of his ink and his scars. The tattoos themselves are all poorly drawn, uneven in color and depth, and with them their own respective scars. Much of the skin under his tattoos as swollen in permanent marring, giving permanence to artistry another level of cruel. On his gaunt, sunken cheeks they begin, the curved dagger of a Bloodsail Buccaneer etched into each side, most commonly the mark of a death brought by the coastal pirates. While his neck is bare, the grim pictures continue again. On his left shoulder, a ship burnt and its bow broken, softly sinking into the water. On his right, an ogre, blood-raged and vile. Biceps bear one haunted shriek, and the other a maggoty apple. Forearms covered in sleeves, nothing but unkind and ruinous words for him to see each and every day. Finger knuckles are covered as well, spelling words of 'BLOOD' and 'SAIL' respectively. His chest bears an elk right side up, while its gnarled antlers are turned upside down, leading to his gut, where no design is made, only tortured and corrupted until he bled from his stomach. His hips, thighs, legs, and feet teem with awful images made to spurn what good looks the boy might have grown with. His scars more purposeful, less fanciful, those curved daggers plain upon his face used to carve through his flesh and destroy him. The first, the most wicked, details the long and slow of a blade hooked along the breadth of his neck to spill him open. Across his nose and down his temples to ruin his visage, and countless more upon his body, arms, and legs, if only to make him scream through the Vale. Beyond such a foreboding man lies simple features. Blonde hair, pale and thin like chaffed wheat, and a skin like bleach, greyed and sullen. Arms and legs brim with musculature despite his grim flesh, and a proud chin sports through the heavy beard and sideburns.Category:Human